


Chance Meetings

by heartsung



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Awkwardness, Boredom, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Cain - Freeform, Mentions of Phobos, Mentions of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsung/pseuds/heartsung
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A (slightly late) birthday gift for a wonderful friend.<br/>Porthos is looking for Phobos and finds Deimos instead. They stare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Meetings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Royal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royal/gifts).



> A birthday gift for Royal aka Royalphantom, because she's a sweetheart and she jumped the ship train when I aimed it at her! Posted here with her permission.

"Where's he gone?"

 

Deimos flinched, startled, and whipped his head around to find out who the intruder was - even though he really should have known, he decided as he caught sight of him, because apart from Cain, there really was only one other person aboard the Sleipnir who knew the lock combination for his and Phobos’s quarters, and that was the white mohawk guy.

 

He straightened his back with a sigh (not such an easy feat, even for him, while sitting on his bunk; the ceilings were low), then slid forward and dropped down, landing on his feet with a quiet, practised  thump . Only then did he make eye-contact with the  toolarge tall navigator, shrug, and point at the door before rasping a near-silent “out somewhere”. He leaned back against the ladder leading up to his bunk - always the upper one, less vulnerable that way - and waited for Porthos to turn around and leave so he could change the code again and make sure nobody who wasn’t supposed to got in. He briefly considered not even telling Phobos, but decided against it as soon as the thought appeared, because all that would lead to was bitching and problems he didn’t want.

 

But apparently, White Mohawk Guy wasn’t planning on getting the hint, instead still standing right in the middle of his quarters as if he’d been glued to the spot, refusing to break eye contact with him, and Deimos couldn’t help but find it funny. Was he scared? Of him? Not that he shouldn’t be; he should, but they rarely were. All everyone saw was a small fighter, easy game, probably too weak to defend himself, let alone a navi - or humanity. Even Phobos still believed that, somehow - but then again, he was ignorant to anything he didn’t want to see.

 

It seemed like Porthos wasn’t, though, because when he did move at last, he moved slowly, walking past him to the small desk set against the far wall for maximum space and because neither of them had ever used it for anything. Making eye contact again  toomuchwhy , he sat down on the single chair in front of it, then smiled. “I’m going to wait for him. I’ve got time.”

 

Two hours later, he was still there. And so was Deimos. They were still in the exact same spots, one sat on the chair at the unused but cluttered desk, the other leaning against the unused, but still creaky bunk ladder. They were still keeping eye contact most of the time, and Deimos couldn’t help but feel like a predator watching another predator watch him. He was getting bored, too, fighting the urge to yawn at Porthos and his  pretty absolutely impractical mohawk. And judging by the navigator’s casual cracking of his fingers, so was he.

 

So Deimos decided to move, eventually, pushing away from the support of the ladder to walk over to his part of the closet, sliding the door open without caring about the mess inside. He sifted through his clothes and possessions quickly to get to the bottom - and the bottle of high-end vodka he’d won a few weeks  months? back. He’d never even opened it, hadn’t had anyone to open it with since Cain’s assignment with Abel, so he figured, why the hell not? Better some overgrown mohawk-wearing navigator than an empty room.

 

So he stood back up and turned around, holding up the alcohol and raising a questioning eyebrow. His answer was a grin … and very slowly, Deimos smiled back.


End file.
